


A List Of Things Eddie Kaspbrak doesn't Know

by daphnie_1



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Character Study, M/M, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:34:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22379563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnie_1/pseuds/daphnie_1
Summary: "He’s forty-two and there’s a lot of things he doesn't know, so many things, but there’s one thing he does." - A list of things that Eddie Kaspbrak doesn't know, and one thing that maybe he does.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	A List Of Things Eddie Kaspbrak doesn't Know

**Author's Note:**

> Additional Warnings: Non-graphic depictions of violence, allusions to Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy.
> 
> Thank you to [Teyla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teyla/pseuds/teyla) for the beta!

He’s ten and he doesn't know why he’s sick all the time, why he has to spend so much time in bed. His mom tucks him in, gives him a book, tells him he’ll get better if he just behaves, if he just does as he’s told, if he’s good. She gives him pill, after pill, after pill and she doesn't explain what they’re for. They just appear, in the dish, on his dresser cabinet with a glass of water beside them. He takes the pills, and she pats him on the head, and calls him a good boy. He’s always her good boy.

When he has to stay in he sits on the floor of his room, reads his comics again and again until he can’t even look at the words anymore, until they shift and move and he just stares out the window, the muscles in his legs twitching, because he wants to run. Just run, until he can’t any more, the air in his lungs, but he’s his mother’s good boy and he won’t, he can’t. Doesn't think he’d be able to, he’s sick, after all. So fragile—but you’re sick—her precious boy. The first time he’d told her he couldn’t breathe, his lungs tight, everything in his head going too fast, she’d gotten him an inhaler, and a note for school, and told No.

He can feel the pages of the comic book underneath his hands and he tries to focus.

He’s eleven and he doesn't know how to ride a bike, so he clings to Bill, scared shitless, wind rushing past, and Bill, well, Bill is riding to beat the devil. Derry goes flying past them and he can barely catch his breath, it’s scary and insane and feels like nothing else. The town seems so small. He can feel the bike twisting when Bill hurtles round corners, just gravity and inertia between him and the ground, and he should be scared, the dents in Bills shoulders say he is, but it’s also almost like nothing could kill him. They stop outside his house, Mom looking through the window, and he has to haul out his inhaler to get his breath back. The only reason she’s not outside dragging him in is Bill, “He’s a good boy, the Denbrough one.”

“Sorry.” Bill says, “I didn’t want you to be late. I thought your mom might freak out and send a search p-party or something.”

He nods, “Yeah, thanks Bill.”

He learns to ride a bike that summer, too afraid to admit to the rest of them that he can’t. He practises in the garden, his mom freaking out every time he falls, but he does it. He learns.

He’s twelve and he doesn't know how they managed to beat the fucking clown. They’re standing in the Barrens, covered in blood, and sweat, and shit and—he can’t breathe properly but he’s trying, he’s trying not to use his inhaler. All he can think of is the germs in his hair, and on his face, and his hands—they’ve just killed a fucking psycho-clown and he’s just counting all the sewer-crap that can kill him; maybe he’ll be one of the few domestic typhoid cases this year which is about all he can take and—

There’s a sharp cut on his hand, enough to jolt him back, and they’re all holding hands—the dirt and the germs and the – says the voice in his head, the one that doesn't always sound like him—but he doesn't care, not now, because this is bigger, so much fucking bigger than any of that.

If IT ever comes back, Bill says, his voice so far off because all Eddie can focus on is squeezing Richie’s hand, we come back. He can hear them all, agreeing, and his own voice too before he even has a chance to think. Because this is it, this is how they manage to beat the fucking clown. By being together.

He’s twenty-three and he doesn't know why he knows that voice. He hears it and it’s enough to tune him back into whatever the fuck he’s watching, something tripping in his head that he can’t quite catch, the name is on the edge of his tongue. But he’s got nothing. it’s just some guy on the TV that he’s probably heard before, some stand-up comic. A pretty shit one at that.

There’s a smattering of laughter from the audience, the guy smirks, and launches into the next joke about fucking his girlfriend. Jesus, who writes this shit? And what the fuck is he wearing? He frowns, because it’s all wrong.

“Eddie, what are you watching?” Myra asks from across the room and he catches the note in her voice.

“Nothing,” he says, “Nothing.”

He’s thirty-five and he doesn't know what the fuck he’s doing. He’s driving, watching the road, Myra’s voice on the phone, and he doesn't know anymore. He looks out the window, turns left on Lexington and 3rd, tries to keep his focus. He’s just driving around in circles, the car’s too warm and the noise is too much, and he’s too pissed off to actually know where he’s going and— “For FUCK’S sake!” he yells at a pedestrian, “Look where the fuck you’re going, asshole.” —and a sharp “Eddie” comes through the speaker.

“I’ve got to go, Myra, another call on the line. Love you?” he says, and hangs up, not waiting for her to answer. He drives, just drives, moves with the flow of the traffic and fuck, if he doesn't hate this city. Everything is too large, and too loud, and too big. He pulls over after a while, just sits, breathes. The glovebox is filled with shit but he rattles everything around until he finds his inhaler, hauls the air into his lungs, feels it settle, waits until he can breathe a bit easier. He drives home, sorts his hair in the car mirror, straightens his tie, because Myra doesn't like him to look untidy, and heads inside.

He’s forty and he doesn't know how they got him back here, why he’s back in this fucking town. The hotel is dusty, and dirty, and probably violating at least twenty safety codes. The staircase alone is a living fucking nightmare. He doesn't think he can stay, doesn't know why he’s here—and Richie walks into reception, looks up from his phone, says “Hey Eds, how’s it going?” like they saw each other last week.

How the fuck did he forget Richie. He looks so much like he did as a kid, with the hair, and the glasses, and sure, everything is different but nothing is and Eddie’s crossing the floor of the hotel before he can stop himself, dragging Richie into a hug. Richie tightens up for a moment, and yeah, right, Richie got weird about touching, and he’s about to pull away, but then Richie leans in. He’s warm and it’s like twenty-seven years mean nothing, and maybe, maybe they don’t. “It’s so good to see you, man.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie responds before he lets go, hand on Eddie’s shoulder just for a second, “Forgot me for twenty-seven years but you know—” And he stops, smiles slightly instead. “It’s good to see you, too, Eds.”

He looks at Richie, thinks of Mike’s voice on the phone, the scar on his hand aching, and he sighs.

He’s forty and he doesn't know how to be brave. So he’s shaking, covered in blood and mud, the side of his face screaming but he’s got no choice. Because Richie is floating, eyes dark, caught in the deadlights and he can’t—he can’t let it happen. The clown, that fucking clown, doesn't get to take Richie. Not him. He can hear Richie’s voice, echoing in his head, feel him touching the side of his face. You’re braver than you think, and there’s so much he wants to—the muscles in his shoulders tighten as he gets ready because he’s got no choice. He needs to be brave, even if he doesn't know how.

Look at him now, he thinks, about to die, and everything suddenly makes sense, hysterical laughter that’s creeping through him, but he has to steady himself, because this is it. Down here in the dirt, and the dark, and the water, he’s gonna kill this fucking clown. Maybe he’s always been brave, maybe that’s the problem, maybe the pills and his mother and everything else just stopped him. He raises the spike and he throws.

It kills monsters, if you think it does.

And he does.

He’s forty-one and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He’d lunged forward, caught Richie’s mouth at a weird angle, and Richie had frozen, just for a second, and he thinks “oh shit”. No idea why he’d done it (he does)—because he’d wanted to check something, to test a theory, something he’s always known, arms flailing.

He’s wrong, maybe he’s wrong, Richie tensing and then— They’re kissing and it’s different, so different from any other time he’s kissed someone, like he’s gonna collapse from the weight of it, the feeling on his skin. He grips on to Richie’s shoulder, muscles moving underneath his hands, almost to steady himself, and he thinks “oh shit”. Richie grabs his other hand, squeezes it, the warmth, and the weight and he thinks yeah. Yeah. They move with each other, and it’s not smooth, it’s messy and he’s at a weird angle but it’s still perfect.

He’s forty-two and there’s a lot of things he doesn't know, so many things, but there’s one thing he does. He looks over at Richie, asleep beside him, and he knows.


End file.
